The White Noise of Your Breath

The city outside is a cacophony of iron and glass, but inside this room, the air tastes like linen and secrets. I stand before you in ivory—a color that feels less like clothing and more like an altar to my own restraint.

My hands are buried deep in these pockets, anchoring me as if I might float away into the sheer silence of your gaze. You haven't touched me yet, but the pressure is unbearable; it’s a tidal wave held back by a hairline fracture in the dam. My heart beats with such violent precision that I fear you can hear it through the fabric.

Every breath we share is an act of sabotage against my composure. You look at me and see a woman composed, polished, serene—but beneath this cream-colored armor lies a riot of unuttered words. It’s the way your eyes linger on the curve of my jaw that makes my lungs ache. I want to collapse into you, to let every suppressed tremor shatter against your chest until we are nothing but two bodies vibrating in sync.

I am drowning in the stillness between us. Every second is a slow-motion explosion; a beautiful, crushing destruction where silence becomes our loudest confession.

Editor: Deep Sea